


There's the Rub

by Unforth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Dean Winchester, Dean is Dean Smith, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Smut, Implied Vers Castiel, Implied Vers Dean, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Massage Therapist Castiel (Supernatural), Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Toys, Size Kink, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-27 12:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20760071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: Dean Smith is a huge ball of stress, so his boss Naomi tells him to get out of Sandover and go get a massage.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I'm a lazy ball of lazy about summaries and titles are the worst and such right now cause I'm trying to go quickly. Oh well.
> 
> Anyway, this is an almost done fic, and I'm planning to write the last scene, like, right now. Enjoy!

"Relax," murmured the massage therapist, pressing his palms into Dean's shoulders and rubbing out and around - out and around - out around. His hands were strong and hot, fragrant with oil, and his voice was sex incarnate, and those were literally the only two positives of this fucking monumental waste of Dean's time.

_ Go take an hour off, they said. Rest and relax, they said. _

_ There's abso-fraggin'-lutely nothing relaxing about lying on this dumbass bed when I've got the Sands contract due tomorrow and the Conference talk to finish and Walker to follow up with and-- _

"Relax," the therapist repeated. Dean repressed a grumble, only to let it out as a long, deep groan as the man pressed his knuckles down each side of Dean's spine.

Okay.

That was...that was pretty good.

"Imagine a jog in the park," murmured the man, doing a twisting motion up the sides of Dean's waist. _ Imagine my fist on your face - I got better shit to do than this _ . "The breeze in your hair." Except Dean _ didn't _ have anything better to do. "The burble of the stream beside the path." Naomi had come to him and said he was banned from the building until he took an hour for himself. "The rustle of the leaves, brilliant green on the trees surrounding you." Bitch thought she knew so damn much - it wasn't like _ she _was going to close the Azazel Industrial deal. "The pound, pound, pound of the ground under your feet."

_ Okay...that actually does sound kind of nice… _

"Up, down - up, down - up, down..." The therapist mimicked the words with the motion of his hands, gripping Dean's shoulders and shifting the tense muscles up, down, up, down, up, down.

Fuck, that felt amazing.

But damn it, Dean had work to do!

"Your lungs labor, inhaling the fresh clean air..." Every word was deep, lilting, and though the language was simple, he conjured images of the days when Dean still had time to run, still got the chance to glory in the exertion of his body. He _ did _have a lot to do, but every stroke down his back felt incredible, and it was stay angry under the onslaught of sensation. Sure, Azazel and Sands were a pain in Dean's ass, but they had no way of knowing he was slacking off for an hour, and if they had to wait, they had to wait.

_ A pain in my ass...? _

"...imagine the rise and fall of your chest, the rise and fall of your knees - your body flows forward with all the strength of the river..."

Heat tingled through Dean's gut, lingering, burgeoned, tingled down his limbs, glowed everywhere the massage therapist touched.

_ ...when was the last time I got laid? _

"You are powerful, strong, solid."

_ When was the last time I even masturbated? _

"You are supple, spry, fleet."

_ I'm just so busy. _

"The birds sing, flying around you."

_ But now is _ so _ not the moment to be thinking about it. _

"Clouds scuttle through the air overhead."

Every word matched with the man's movements, sometimes strong, sometimes gentle, sometimes kneading, sometimes pressing. Fingers skimmed down Dean's arms, spread his fingers, tugged his arm out in a glorious stretch, and Dean sighed into the soft-topped table.

"And you _ fly _."

Maybe he shouldn't have thought of Naomi as a bitch. She _ was _a bitch, owned the term proudly, but this massage was the best idea she'd had in months.

Lulled, Dean drifted, sometimes picking out individual words or sentences, but more often lost in the timber of his massage therapist's voice. Deep, strong, calming, his tone was as grounding as his palms working at Dean's knotted lats. He was scheduled for an hour, and where the first minutes, Dean could have counted every second in frenetic worry about all the things he needed to do, now he had no idea how much time had passed, how long he'd been there, how long he'd be staying.

_ Not long enough... _

The hands left him.

_ Not _ nearly _ long enough...is it really done already? _

"Please turn over to lie on your back," suggested the therapist. Dean blinked bleary eyes - had he dozed off? No, he didn't think so, he never slept so peacefully, never drifted so easily. The room was shadowed and dark, soothing music playing softly, the scent of musky oil redolent. The tall man - Dean had noted virtually nothing about his appearance - held a sheet up so Dean could roll over in privacy. He was naked save for his tighty whities, and as he rolled over, he couldn't but recall the man he'd been before his promotion. He used to wear boxers. He used to jog every morning. He used to...

Aw, hell, thank God he wasn't wearing boxers. Even briefs couldn't completely hide his erection. The man draped the blanket over Dean's chest, waist, and thighs before Dean could protest. The exact moment the therapist spotted his hardness was evident in widened eyes and a smirk that had Dean flushing hot with shame.

"Yeah, uh, sorry...we can be done here..." 

_ Completely inappropriate - finally found something nice that's just for me and I'm gonna get banned for life because I haven't paid enough attention to little Dean over the past umpteen months, and-- _

"Don't worry about it," the man said, still calm, still serene, breaking into a grin that revealed perfect teeth that gleamed in the faint light. "It happens all the time. I take it as a compliment."

"But--"

Dean got his elbows under himself and started to rise, but the massage therapist put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down without seeming to exert the least effort.

Little Dean proved he wasn't so little after all, thickening, shifting the blanket.

"Don't undo all my hard work," he chided. "Now - relax. You've got 10 minutes left."

_ That's not nearly enough time. _Dean couldn't stop another sigh, surprised at the disappointment seeping chill through the warmth suffusing him.

The man smiled gently.

Hell, he was _ hot _.

Dean managed a half smile back, settled back down, and eased himself back into bliss as the man started talking again.

"The run is done - aching muscles, soaking in a hot tub - so satisfying, so warm, so, so, _ good _..." And he rubbed, and massaged, and eased every ache from Dean's legs, his arms, his chest.

The ten minutes passed much too quickly.

And then they were done - the massage therapist turned the lights up - "Don't move too quickly, it's common to be dizzy after such...deep...relaxation" - and then Dean was alone to get dressed, pay the tab, and return to work.

He was still achingly hard.

Masturbating in the massage room sounded skeevy in the extreme but Dean had to get back to work, and as thick as he was - and as wobbly as the rubbing had left his legs - he wasn't even sure he could walk. He lay back, staring at the stuccoed ceiling, listening to a flute playing a soft, Asian-esque music, waffling over what to do.

_ Aw, fuck it. _

_ Or rather, fuck me. _

Tugging his underwear aside, shoving the sheet off himself, Dean wrapped a hand around his cock and bit his lip against a groan. God, he was stiff, fat, aching from long neglect. Pleasure lit the room like noon sunlight, the shivering relaxation of the massage coursing through him, making pressure thick in his gut. He stroked himself and gasped, electrified, muscles tensing. He stroked himself again, back stiff, arching off the massage table. He stroked himself a third time and gasped as the pressure inside him imploded, tore through him. Come streaked his belly and glopped over his fingers as he rubbed himself through a profoundly intense orgasm. With a huge exhale, he went limp and lax against the table.

Holy shit he felt _ good _.

A laugh tore through him, another, another, until he cried with relief and relaxation and pleasure.

This was _ exactly _what he needed.

The afterglow carried him through cleaning himself up, carried him through getting dressed, carried him as though he drifted through a dream as he left the room, was greeted by his beaming massage therapist bearing a cup of water, and sternly told to drink. It stayed with him as he paid, including a generous tip, as he returned to work, as he serenely told Sands to take the deal or Sandover would walk, as he looked over his presentation and spotted in a glance - and removed in a few quick backspaces - the errors that had eluded him during days of preparation.

"Good work today, Smith," said Uriel, who fricken _ never _complimented him.

The afterglow even intensified when, hours later, Dean called the day spa's number and heard an oh-so-familiar voice on the phone.

"I'd like to make another appointment," Dean said.

"Excellent, Mr. Smith. And do you have a preference as to who your massage therapist will be?" asked the man, his smirk obvious in his tone of voice.

"What was your name again?"

A sinful chuckle was followed by, "Castiel."

"You. I want you again." Dean knew exactly how dirty-wrong-bad that sounded and couldn't bring himself to care.

Castiel chuckled again, and said, "Well, then, you've got me."

Dean barely got his time scheduled and the phone hung up before he had his dick in his hand again.

Massages were amazing.

But Dean might have a problem.

* * *

Dean _ definitely _ had _ multiple _problems.

Like, 99 problems, and while bitches were several of them - fuck Jody Sands, and not in a single fun way - he was no longer preoccupied with his work issues. No, whole new issues stole his attention. Like,

  1. Castiel's hair. How did he get his hair so artfully dishevelled?
  2. Castiel's voice. Gruff, and deep, and as soothing as Castiel's hands rubbing over Dean's aching muscles. And speaking of,
  3. Castiel's fucking hands - strong, the skin soft, the grip made slick by massage oil, those were a huge problem - long fingered, thick-palmed, impossible not to think about when Dean touched himself, which he seemed to be doing more and more often.

He could go on, but he tried not to think about Castiel that much.

Except he thought about Castiel _ constantly _.

The first few weeks, Dean scheduled an appointment a week, Castiel fitting him in the schedule wherever he had a free hour. Week 4 was when Dean canceled an investor meeting so he could make an appointment. Week 7 was when Castiel finally had one of his regular weekly slots become available, and from then on, Friday at 1 PM was Dean's time. TGIF took on a whole new meaning, when Dean could get his massage, wrap up the last few hours of the work week, and then go home and enjoy a self-indulgent night as he hadn't allowed himself in years. He went to a nice restaurant. He popped the cork on a bottle of wine. He read a book. On Saturday morning, he went for a jog. He'd work fourteen hour days Sunday to Thursday, but, under Castiel's auspices, his encouragement, his ministrations, Dean reclaimed one night and one morning a week, and it was glorious.

But speaking of problems?

What did Castiel's smirks mean? What did Castiel's smiles mean? Why did Castiel wink at him sometimes, and was it Dean's imagination or had Castiel increased the time he spent on glute massage? Why did so many of Castiel's guided meditations incorporate sexual analogies, sexual terms, so much suggestive language that Dean was getting hard earlier and earlier every session?

The number of times Dean had come whimpering Castiel's name?

A _ really huge _ problem.

And Dean knew, _ knew _, his behavior was wildly inappropriate. Those smiles, those winks, those sexual analogies, they meant nothing. Castiel provided a service, for which Dean paid him handsomely. That didn't entitle Dean to Castiel’s time outside of the office, or to his attraction, or even to masturbate imagining his voice. Dean was being a creepazoid with a heaping side of nope, and too often, his relaxation dissipated into guilt and embarrassment.

But he couldn't stop.

That was the hundredth problem.

No - the reality was worse. Dean could stop, knew he could deprive himself of any pleasure in pursuit of his career. He'd sublimated his desires, his needs, himself, for years in single-minded pursuit of corporate success. The worst part, the most shameful part?

Dean could stop.

But he didn't want to.

And that he couldn't seem to overcome that, couldn't seem to make himself? Made him crazy.

_ Maybe I can...ask him out? _

_ Like...a real date? _

Fuck, but that was so not an option. Dean paid Castiel a couple hundred bucks a week. With that hanging between them, there was no way that Dean could ask a genuine question about pursuing a relationship - no way that Castiel wouldn’t be forced to wonder if the money was at stake if he said no. 

As long as they were bound financially - as long as Castiel was a massage therapist, and Dean was his customer - there was no way for them to be anything more.

And no reason to think Castiel _ wanted _to be more.

_ I should just stop this and find someone else to rub my back. It’s not like Castiel is the only massage therapist in Columbus. There’s zillions of options and dozens with good Yelp reviews. _

_ I should switch providers and forget Castiel ever existed. _

Yet he didn't change a thing.

Because while he was nothing to Castiel save a client - they'd never even had a conversation aside from scheduling subsequent sessions -Dean couldn't bring himself to end their business relationship.

And when he lay under the table, lay under the spell of Castiel's voice and Castiel's touch and Castiel's smell and Castiel's smile?

Ending things was the last thing on Dean's mind.

Because he didn't want to.

* * *

"...let it go..." Castiel's voice worked its usual magic, tickling along Dean's skin as Castiel's thumbs worked over the curve of his buttocks. "...let go of the mountain..." Dean's cock pressed into the massage table; Dean had long since given up on wearing underwear during their sessions, bare-assed under the sheet, his dick free to move instead of getting bound in tight fabric or elastic when it hardened. "...let go of the guilt..." Under the enchantment of that spa room, Dean was relaxed as he never was beyond its walls. "...let go of the sand..." Castiel's voice set a slow, sultry tempo, his hands working in time with his chant, and Dean's body moved, shifting, shifting, his hips undulating against the massage table. "...let go of the inhibitions..."

Dean felt _ incredible _.

"...let go of the...ahem..." Castiel's cleared his throat, placed a light slap on Dean's ass, and Dean froze. "I'm sorry, Mr. Smith - I need you to keep still."

Oh.

Dean froze.

Oh, _ hell _.

He'd been masturbating against the table. While Castiel was in the room. While Castiel was _ touching him _.

"Better..." praised Castiel, but there was no pleasure in hearing his deep voice, nothing soothing in the return of his Castiel's hands to Dean’s waist.

"Stop," Dean said roughly. Ever obliging, ever professional unlike Dean's sorry ass, Castiel obeyed. "I can't...I can't do this."

"Mr. Smith, I--"

The use of that damn name, not Dean, not babe, not sexy, no, Mister-fricken-Smith, was another jolt of cold misery through Dean.

"No - no, we're done," said Dean. "I'm sorry, Mr. Novak, I should have - _ shouldn't _have...I gotta go."

Dean surged upright so quickly that Castiel skipped back from the table and nearly hit the near wall of the tiny room. For an instant, Dean could swear he saw consternation on Castiel's face, but that was insane, and the look was gone before Dean could bring himself to believe he hadn't imagined it. And then--

"Of course. Don't apologize, Mr. Smith. I'm sorry I've made you uncomfortable. I'll go get your water."

Castiel fled the room.

Of course he did. God, Dean was disgusting.

Furious with himself, he threw on his undershirt, his underwear, his work suit, his tie. He girded himself in the armor of his job, reproving himself up one side and down the other the whole time. This came of indulging himself. This came of relaxing. This came of allowing himself to want, of permitting himself latitude, of taking time for himself. Dean was always a fucking mess when he wasn't strict with himself. He should have learned that after his time in college, his time in business school, through all the dumb mistakes that had almost kept him from achieving his full potential.

He stormed from the room, shaking off Castiel's attempt to offer him a cup of water. He didn't deserve the water, or the massage, or Castiel. What a damn idiot he'd been.

"See you next week?" Castiel called after him.

Dean couldn't even bring himself to answer.

An hour later, his secretary called the spa to cancel his weekly appointment.

God, Dean was a wuss.

But he'd done what needed to be done.

He was gonna get so fucking drunk that night.

* * *

Dean's head hit the hard wood of the bar with a thunk. Once upon a time, Dean had one hell of an alcohol tolerance, honed during many a frat party and weekend binge. Alcohol had always been excellent medicine for what ailed him...until now. He'd had one neat whiskey and already his stomach was queasy, his vision blurred, and his brain muddled.

He was tipsy on one. damn. drink.

Fuck, was he pathetic.

He blinked, his side-skewed sight of the bar going golden in the muted glow of the mood lighting, and when he opened his eyes, Castiel was sitting in the bar stool beside him.

Fuck, he was shit faced and fricken hallucinating from one. fucking. shot.

"Bartender." In casual conversation, Castiel's voice was higher pitched, but still sinfully hot, as he gestured toward the woman scrubbing the bar counter. "I'd like one Stella Artois and one cup of ice water with one..." He glanced at Dean. "Make that two slices of lemon."

"And the fucker thinks I drink Stella," grumbled Dean, the shellacked bar top catching the side of his mouth and slurring his speech. "Even my hallucination thinks I'm a douchebag."

"The Stella is for me," said Castiel flippantly. "You've had enough to drink."

"One. Fucking. Drink."

"You think I'm a hallucination."

"Prove you're not."

The bartender returned with the drinks; Castiel lifted his, raised his head, and drank it in one enormous sip that showed off the purse of his lips, the perfect curve of his throat, the sinful bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed.

Fantastic, Dean was drunk enough to feel shitty and sober enough for his dick to still twitch in response to a figment of his imagination.

The evening kept getting worse.

"Still think I'm not actually here?" asked Castiel with a cocky half smile.

"Definitely not actually real...ly," Dean replied petulantly. He pivoted against the counter top, smooshing his nose and lips against it, turning to face the other direction. A woman winked suggestively at him from the far end of the room, and his dick went flaccid.

Worse. And. Fucking. Worse.

"Dean, look at me."

"No."

"Please."

"Fuck, no."

"At least drink some water..."

Dean lifted an arm that felt about ten tons too heavy, moved as if to take the glass...and flipped Castiel the bird.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

Stretching his fingers out, Dean brought his thumb up, his other fingers down, and moved them in imitation of a talking mouth, blah blah blah.

Wait.

What had Castiel said?

Sitting up...trying to sit, but mostly flopping to his side...Dean turned toward Castiel, one eyebrow raised skeptically. Castiel’s expression was sincere, his eyes wide and dark and earnest, his bed head stupidly distracting. The whole package made a look of contrition that would have been way more believable if he didn't still have beer foam on his upper lip.

_ Hey, lemme just...lemme just wipe that away for you...with my lips...on your lips... _

_ No. _

"Go away," he mumbled miserably. "You got nothing to be sorry for. I'm a creep."

"You're not, and I _ am _sorry."

Dean blinked.

Castiel watched him.

The room spun.

Dean blinked again.

Was he supposed to say something?

"Wha?"

Perfect. Yes. Exactly that. Much intelligent. Smarty McSmartypants.

Yet, Castiel took the question in stride, waving away the bartender as she retrieved the empty pint glass and asked with a silent tilt of her head if Castiel wanted another. His lips tilted into a sympathetic frown. His eyes tightened in...what, fucking concern?

God, Dean's drunken delusions were never this fricken weird in college. He glanced around the room for an escape, but there was only that same woman, leering at him, and. No.

"When I flirted back - when I encouraged your behavior - I assumed you were an equal partner in that give in take. I never thought through the awkwardness that our fiscal relationship imposed on any potential physical relationship, and I should have. That I didn't request explicit consent - that I didn't address our power balance - I should have known better, and I'm truly, profoundly, very sorry."

Flirted back?

Encouraged?

Consent?

Power imbalance?

What the actual fuck?

Dean's mouth fell open, and he managed a truly, profoundly, very useless "uh" of utter bafflement.

"I can only excuse my behavior by pointing out that you are a dangerously attractive man, and your physical responses to my ministrations made it...extremely...clear to me how you felt. You're..." Castiel bit at his lip, frowned, licked up the beer foam, and holy hell there was Dean's erection. "You're distracting, Mr. Smith."

"Takes one to know one," Dean grumbled.

"Yes, it's a constant novelty that you seem as enthusiastic about me as I am about you," said Castiel thoughtfully.

"Alright, ghost of Christmas future, you've said your bit, now...poof." Dean waved dismissively.

Castiel frowned. "I'm real, Dean."

"And I'm a monkey's uncle."

"The bartender and I interacted."

"Maybe she's fake too."

"I drank a Stella."

"Like that proves anything? Who does that?"

"Fine. Have it your way." With a burst of movement, Castiel distorted into blurred oblivion, hands - hot and solid and deliciously real - grabbed Dean's cheeks, and he blinked to find his field of vision consumed by brilliant blue eyes. Lips pressed against his, still tasting of yeasty foam, and hell if Castiel wasn't as good at massaging with his mouth as he was with his fingers. Too soon, the contact fell away, and Dean, slumped, dizzy, onto his stool.

"Real enough for you?" Castiel's grin proved he knew exactly how fricken good he was at kissing.

"What about that whole explicit consent mumbo jumbo?" Dean muttered.

"You're right, I'm sorry," said Castiel with mock contrition. "Next time I'll ask much more clearly."

"Next time?" Another blink, and Castiel was achingly far away, the room no longer spinning around them. Dean took a breath, his stomach steadying, and he managed to meet Castiel's grin with a hesitant smile. "Sure there'll be a next time?"

"Absolutely positive." Castiel's confidence was contagious, his solidity unmistakably real. "For now - how about we settle the tab and I walk you home?"

Everything about how they'd met, how they'd interacted to date, how they'd spoken this evening, was fucked. No matter what Castiel said, Dean had taken advantage of his status as a customer, and had behaved atrociously, and now he was a sullen, douchey drunk who hadn't even fricken apologized for his squick-worthy behavior.

Castiel's eyes opened wide and blue, his lips spread in a hopeful smile, and Dean's self-recrimination, accurate or not, crumbled to dust.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "That, uh. That sounds awesome."

And Castiel looked so stinking happy. No one had ever looked that pleased to see Dean - Castiel _ couldn't _be real - yet he reached out, and took Dean's hand, and fuck if Dean's heart didn't give a helpless, vulnerable flutter that had fuckall to do with the shot he'd chugged.

"Yeah, Castiel..."

"Call me Cas."

"Cas...yeah...let's do that."

The walk home, with Castiel...Cas...at his shoulder, was plenty long to dissipate Dean's tipsiness. The evening was crisp and clear, Cas' palm sweaty against his in the best possible way. Their fingers interlaced, their strides synced, and it felt so natural that it was hard to believe that they were nothing to each other.

_ But I have to remember that. Our only relationship was transactional, and now that's been dissolved...he's no more to me than a stranger that picked me up at the bar. _

_ That's not true. I know how his hands feel on my body. I know how his voice tingles down my spine. I know how wrecked my voice grows when I moan his name as I come. We are something to each other... _

_ ...but what? _

"So, uh." Dean cleared his throat and glanced at his companion. Cas' gaze remained fixed forward on the sidewalk ahead, on the cross traffic they'd need to dodge at the next intersection, but he gave Dean's hand a reassuring squeeze, his thumb rubbing slow circles around Dean's knuckles.

"I'm sorry too, Cas," he said. "I was so sure you wouldn't be interested - so sure that if I asked, every answer would be unreliable..." He shook his head. The worries that had consumed him seemed absurd now; whatever their fiscal entanglement, Cas was an adult, compos, able to tell Dean to go fuck himself if he wasn't interested. The irony was that trying to respect Cas' boundaries, Dean has completely disrespected his agency.

_ But looking back...I don't see what I could have possibly done differently. I was damned either way. _

"We both screwed the pooch," Cas said solemnly, the serious look on his face picked out by the bright lights of headlights.

Dean spluttered out a laugh.

"Screwed the...screwed..."

"Yes, screwed the pooch," Cas deadpanned.

"Not the only thing that could be gettin' screwed tonight," Dean chortled with a suggestive eyebrow waggle. 

Despite a warm smile in return, Cas shook his head. "I think we've both learned a valuable lesson about communication," he said. "Until we've talked through our misunderstandings - and until you're sober - I don't think we should engage in any 'screwing,' pooch related or otherwise."

Oh hell, not only was Cas' a walking, talking sex crime, he was also fricken adorable, with his sly smiles and his coy expression and his one-handed air quotes. "Thank you, Captain Planet, for this valuable PSA." 

_ There's definitely _ some _ screwing going on. _

"I think you need to get me a ring before I can truly be Captain Planet," said Castiel blandly.

_ ...because, listening to him? Touching him? Laughing at his side? _

"Naw, you got that backward. Captain Planet gave the Planeteers their rings."

_ I am so screwed. _

"Of course. My mistake. I'll get right on that."

_ So. Insanely. Screwed. _

Dean stopped walking so abruptly that Cas continued forward another step, tugging his arm. "This, uh." Dean gestured at the doors that swept open before them, spilling bright light onto the sidewalk. "This is where I live." The building was modern, plush, Dean's loft apartment offering panoramic views of the city. Bringing dates here had always made Dean feel proud, arrogant, even, but now he just felt pretentious.

"Oh," and Cas' disappointment was palatable.

_Good reminder, that - he knows me even less than I know him. Whatever fantasy he's constructed about the kind of man he thinks I am, this is the reality, and Sunday I'll be back at work, back marketing, and--_

"Guess that means goodnight," Cas sighed.

_ Wait. Waitwaitwait. I read that all wrong. _

"Or. Um. You could come up?" Dean asked, daring to hope maybe Cas' disappointment was that they'd be parting so soon. 

Cas' expression morphed, beamed more brightly than the lobby, and Dean's tension eased. "I've got, uh, coffee...tea..."

"I don't know," said Cas with a solemn frown that had Dean's stomach sinking. "Do you have Stella Artois?"

Dean blinked.

Cas grinned.

"Not a drop of booze in the place," Dean admitted, but happiness buoyed him so high he nearly bounced on his heels. Nothing in their massages had suggested what a snarky, teasing pain in the ass Cas was, and it was...

_ ...phenomenal, hot as hell, amazing... _

...no superlative Dean could think of was strong enough.

"Then I'd be delighted to join you, Mr. Smith."

_ Talking this shit out like mature adults is gonna be hard... _

"Thank you, Mr. Novak." 

_ ...but I have never met someone more worth the effort. _


	2. Chapter 2

Leaning back on the couch, Cas took a long, slow breath, his handsome chest swelling. Smoke curled off the cup of coffee he clutched, swirled under his nose, and Dean stared like a total perv.

_ Not a total perv, not any longer. He's no longer my massage therapist, and I have permission to ogle now. _

_ For the first time since we met, my behavior isn't creeptastic. _

"This makes me...very happy," Cas sighed. He titled the cup, placed the rim at his lips, and carefully sampled the hot contents with his long, pink, adroit tongue.

_ ...and now I'm assessing the dexterity of his tongue... _

_ Do we really have to do the talking part first? _

Cas took a sip, his throat bobbing, his eyes slipping blissfully shut, his toned body relaxing against Dean's pristine white couch.

Swallowing, Dean slammed his mug down so hard that the saucer rattled against the table and coffee sloshed onto his hand. With a yelp, he pulled back, shaking away the pain. At least, with his eyes watering and his hand stinging, his interested cock wasn't foremost in his awareness.

"You alright?" asked Cas serenely.

And there was his dick again.

_ Not even a little. _

"Yeah," Dean croaked.

"So Dean." Cas' eyes flashed open; he deftly set the mug open and pinned Dean with a glance. "Tell me about me."

"Right," said Dean, looking away. Cas' features were so chiseled, his cheeks so gorgeously ruddy and scruffy, his eyes so blue, that watching him was impossible. "I'm, uh...so. Dean Smith. Aquarius. I work in Marketing at Sandover, and--" Movement caught Dean's attention, Cas shaking his head in exasperated denial. Tendrils of black hair skimmed over his forehead. Every fricken feature of the man was insanely distracting, damn him. "What?"

"I don't ask you to tell me about you," corrected Cas. "Tell me about  _ me _ ."

"...but I don't know much about you?" Dean replied, baffled. "...uh...you're a massage therapist?"

"And?"

"...and..."

"Exactly." Passion flashed in those gorgeous eyes and stole Dean's breath away. If tonight went badly - if they talked and Cas realized what a douche Dean was, or if nothing came of this conversation but an amicable separation - Dean would remember that expression for the rest of his life, store it way, fantasize about it, preserve it for time immemorial just for himself. "Dean, you don't know a damn fucking thing about me. So instead of making assumptions, why didn't you talk to me?"

"I wanted to," Dean admitted. "But I was paying you for the massages, and I worried...that you might think I was talking about a happy ending, or that if we went on a date and it went badly, I wouldn't be able to keep getting massages from you, or that you weren't interested..." The longer Dean talked, the more one of Cas' eyebrows rose in skeptical disbelief. "Come on, man, don't look at me like that..."  _ ...like you're a hairsbreadth from grabbing my tie, slamming my head against the coffee table and fucking me senseless...no, no brain, stop stop stop... _ "...look, if I go to a restaurant, and the waitress winks and smiles and flirts, I don't ask her out! Only a jackass think her behavior means anything. So...you winked, and you smiled, and you flirted, and...how could I take that seriously? Knowing I was your customer? Know your tip depended on your likeability?"

Cas opened his mouth, closed it again, heaved a sigh, and nodded. "That's fair. And...I guess I could have talked to you, too. As the one of us with less power, less agency, in our situation, it should have been my role, to approach you, to explain myself, to clarify my interest. I got caught up in the game of it. And I say again, as I did earlier - I'm sorry."

"The...the game of it?" Dean spluttered.

"Did you think your erections were subtle?" said Cas dryly, staring at the bulge that even Dean's position, seated and hunched forward, couldn't conceal. Dean's cheeks went hot and crimson.  _ Both sets of my cheeks...I wonder how red my ass gets when it's freshly massaged? Has Cas been staring? _ "Well, they're not. On the contrary, they're quite...prominent. Tantalizing, even. Of course I knew you were turned on - and as I said during our first session, you're far from my only client who gets hard during a good massage. However, generally speaking, I don't encourage that behavior."

"...and you think you were encouraging mine?"

Cas' eyes slipped closed, his posture changed, his hands lifted and swayed in strange imitation of conducting music - or, perhaps, of giving a massage? "You're riding the bicycle," he intoned, slipping into the deep gravel of his work voice. Goose bumps sprang up over Dean's arms. "You pass over a speed bump - you rise and fall, rise and fall, riding the bumps, riding the road...remember that one?"

Throat dry, Dean nodded. "Vividly."

"You explore the tunnel," Cas continued, voice even lower, throaty, and fuck but Dean was so horny it was difficult not to palm himself through his pants. "It's so hot, so humid - sweat coats your face, your forehead, your chest. You delve deeper, deeper still..."

"Yeah, I remember that one too." Dean's voice was lower, too, gruff. Every guided meditation, his imagination had fired, mental images layered upon images - of riding the bicycle, of the smooth road interrupted by speed bumps, of Cas beneath him fucking up as Dean pushed down on to his cock, of the hot, dripping tunnel they imagined, of Dean's tongue exploring the folds of Cas' anus.

_ I remember ever damn word, and every fantasy, and wasn't that exactly the problem? _

_ Except...maybe it's not a problem? _

"I've never been accused of being subtle."

"Well, I guess I'm just a dumbass then," said Dean bitterly.

"No, Dean," Cas replied with a fond smile. "Never that. This is my fault. Communication is the key. We both should be explicit. What do you want, Dean?"

Dean paused, made sure Cas hadn't tricked him with the wording again, fixed his gaze on his hands clasped before him, and said, "I'd like to take you out a date." 

_ I'd like to slide down your massage table and have you slip your cock into me while you rub my back.  _

"I'd like to buy you a great meal, uncork a bottle of wine, and argue over sharing a dessert until we end up getting two." 

_ I'd like to wrap my lips around your dick and listen to your voice get increasingly wrecked as you tell me how to pleasure you and I do exactly, precisely, what you ask.  _

"I'd like to walk you home, and share a kiss in the moonlight, and then text the next day to ask if you want to do it again sometime - sooner rather than later."

_ I'd like to introduce you to my vibrator, see if we can slide it and you into my ass. _

"I'd like to start at the beginning, and try to get this thing right." Freaked, flushed from his imaginings, Dean chanced a look up. Cas grinned at him, relaxed, unmistakably happy, and Dean released an explosive, relieved breath. "You wanna do all that, too?"

"Very much," nodded Cas. "But if I may..." Without explanation -  _ what happened to explicit consent? For fuck's sake, Cas _ \- Cas rose, set his mug down, stepped around the coffee table, and stopped directly behind Dean. His proximity was weighty, powerful, confusing and tempting, twisting Dean's insides into a nervous, horny knot. "You seem tense." Hands settled, strong yet gentle, on Dean's shoulders. Hot breath blew over Dean's ear, Cas leaning so close Dean could feel the warmth radiating from him.

"May I tell you what I want, Dean?"

Dean kept his nod slight lest he smash into Cas’ nose.

Cas' palms pressed a circular movement into the back of his shoulders. "I want to lie you down on that queen sized bed I stole a peek at when I went to the bathroom. I want you on your belly, stretched out and so, so open. I want to squat over your perfect ass, lean down close, ease every last knot from these amazing shoulders, and whisper every fantasy I've had about you in your ear." Shifting his hands, Cas kneaded his fingers through the dip of Dean's clavicle, thumbs circling the base of Dean's neck. "By the time I'm done, I want you so relaxed you could sleep, so desperate for me you could cry. I want to slide into your body so. damn. gently. that you hardly realize I'm in there, until I make you feel every." Cas squeezed. "Single." Cas nipped at his ear. "Thrust."

"Holy shit, Cas!"

And then Cas was gone, his hands removed, presence distant, and Dean whimpered, tumbling back in his chair. 

"And then in the morning I want you to make me breakfast, and tell me more about this date you're going to take me on. How does that sound, Dean?"

There were no fucking words. Surging to his feet, Dean was halfway across the room, vision spinning, hand adjusting his cock to a more comfortable position, when Cas called after him.

"Explicit consent!"

Explicit...right...

Dean whirled on a heel. "Get in my room and fuck me, Cas. That explicit enough for you?"

Beautiful laughter filled Dean's barren, soulless living room with joy.

_ I barely know him, and I'm already so  _ gone _ on him. _

"I'm gonna make you feel so good, Dean," Cas said with the solemnity of a vow.

"You always do, Cas. You always,  _ always _ do."

* * *

Dean had a lot to learn about Cas, but the last hour had been an extremely instructive start.

"I used to imagine that I had you tied to my massage bed."

He'd learned that Cas was eager enough to touch Dean that he had no qualms about attempting to rip Dean's clothing of - and Dean had learned that Cas was strong enough to succeed in such an attempt.

"I'd get you so hot and bothered..."

He'd learned that when Cas gave an order, he expected to be obeyed.

"...and then I'd step away..."

He'd learned that Cas was a fucking tease, delighted in tantalizing touches and tickling brushes, merciless when he laughed at Dean's irrepressible moans and squirms.

"...and leave you there..."

He'd learned that Cas' cock was  _ way _ to big for him to ever “slip gently” into Dean's body, the weight of it solid against Dean's ass crack while Cas taunted him. It was a damn good thing Cas carried his own condoms, because Dean didn’t have any in the house that would fit him.

"...and just  _ talk _ ."

Cas' voice cracked, low and horny, on the last word. Dean wiggled up from the bed - eager, waiting, God, he was desperate. Every time Cas' weight bore down, every time his hips shifted, he pressed on the largest of Dean's toys, coated in lube and slid into Dean's body to prep him. Every breath that escaped Dean was sultry, humid enough to mist the gleaming metal of his headboard, yet his mouth was desperately dry, his body overwrought, his hard cock trapped against the bed.

"Please, Cas..."

"I've always thought I could get you to come just by talking," Cas continued thoughtfully. Shifting, Cas settled his knees on the bed on either side of Dean's ass, pivoted his hips to bring his cock full against Dean's back side, and bore his weight down on the hands with which he rubbed Dean's lower back. "Do you have any idea how remarkable you are? How sensitive?" Cas' hips rolled against him and Dean moaned, guttural, broken, as the movement shifted the dildo. “I’ve touched...so many...bodies, and never met anyone quite like you.”

But the dildo wasn't Cas - wasn't as long, nor as fat, nor as alive - and it wasn't what Dean needed.

"Fuck me, Cas!"

"You're not relaxed," chided Cas.

Dean had learned that Cas was a goddamn son of a  _ bitch _ .

"Please!"

"Someday, I'm going to do exactly that," Cas continued, undeterred. Tears pooled in Dean's eyes, soaked into the pillow beneath his face. "You think I'm teasing you now--"

"Fuck yeah, you are!"

"--you haven't seen  _ anything _ yet. I bet it would take me hours to get you good and worked up." The bastard made it sound like a thought experiment, a hypothetical, a promise. "Your legs and arms bound so tightly you can't even hump the pillows, your ass out and open and so sensitive that the slightest brush..." Cas froze, leaned down, blew a gust of cold air up Dean's spine. "...would push you to the edge..." Dean shivered, moaned, wriggled for the slightest simulation. "...relax..."

"I'm begging, Cas - that what you want? You got it. I'll do anything. Just, please!"

"You know what I want," murmured Cas, kissing his back.

"What?"

"Re.lax."

A sob tore from Dean. He bucked up from the bed, met the solid barrier of Cas' thighs, and fell back down, the mattress bouncing. Cas didn't follow him, didn't continue to brush him, only Cas' hands on his back and knees at his sides remained to ground him, to keep him from despair. 

_ Why won't he...? Why can't he...? Doesn't he want...? _

_ No. That's unfair. I know he wants me. As hung as he is, he's still maintained that erection for the better part of an hour. That shit ain't easy or common. _

_ If the only way to get what I want - what we both want? - if the only way to get what I  _ need _ is to wait until...then I’ll wait...until what...? _

_ Until I relax. _

_ And why can't I relax?  _

_ Because this sexy bastard keeps  _ humping my ass _ , duh. _

_ No. That’s not why. _

_ This is a trust issue. We started out communicating like garbage but now Cas has been exceptionally clear. If I relax, he'll give me what I crave. _

With a sigh, Dean went limp against the bed.

"Good," Cas rumbled into his shoulder, resuming his massage, resuming his slow frottage. "That's more like it."

Another slow breath out, and Dean let his eyes slip shut.

"I've had months to get to know your outsides," said Cas. Dean let the voice encompass him, enfold him. "How you like to be touched, how you like to be rubbed, where you carry tension, how soft you become when you’re replete, how much pressure you like, and where..." As he spoke, Cas massaged, implementing the expertise he described. Dean was putty in his hands, lax, loose, so hot he could have melted. 

"...I can't wait to learn your insides as well."

Thumbs worked up Dean's back and Cas slid forward, smothering him against the bed, sucking a kiss into the curve of Dean's neck. 

"I want to know what you enjoy." 

Heat burgeoned, but the urgency didn't return. 

"I want to know your hobbies." 

Dean was cradled, supported, held, adored by every touch. 

"I want to learn your interests, and share mine with you."

Satisfied, Dean let trust and faith and desire wash through him.

"I want to know what brings you joy."

And he felt  _ spectacular _ .

"Good," Cas breathed. "Good," he stretched it into a deep groan. "I knew you could do it, Dean."

Dean  _ glowed _ .

"And I want to learn..."

A hand left his back, slid down his side, cradled his ass cheek. 

"...want to learn every sound you make..."

Fingers teased at his hole and the dildo shifted. 

"...every way I can make you come..."

Heat jolted through Dean's insides, streaked from the ends of his toes to the tips of his fingers, illuminated the inside of his head incandescent. 

"...every way you can make me come..."

The dildo slid out of Dean's body.

"...I want..."

And Dean didn't tense up, didn't whimper, didn't worry. Cas' weight shifted above him, and Dean waited, breathing evenly. This wasn't a one night stand. Cas cared about him, was interested in him - and Dean cared about Cas, and was interested in him, and, most importantly, trusted him. 

Cas would give Dean what he needed.

Rubber-coated blunt cock head, thick and fat, pushed at Dean's hole. Dean breathed in, breathed out.

He was relaxed.

He was  _ ready _ .

Cas slid easily, deeply into Dean's body. A throaty sound garbled in Dean's throat, soft, squeaky, vulnerable, embarrassing yet impossible to prevent. Cas felt huge inside him, stretching him, filling him. Erection pressed against the sensitive nub of his prostate, rubbed at the thin, delicate skin of his insides, lubricant smoothing the way. 

"Fuck, Dean."

Dean's rim fluttered, tensing slightly, relaxing slightly, and Cas groaned. The sound vibrated through both of them, flashing as color over Dean's closed eyes. His fingers fumbled at the blankets, balling into cloth-filled fists, the only concession to the desire and need and pressure swirling within him. His hole tightened again and Cas undulated over him, sweat slicking where their skin rubbed together.

"Fuck!"

And Cas  _ moved _ . Elbows on either side of Dean, head pressed against Dean's neck, Cas didn't thrust, he rolled, his hips moving forward and back, forward and back, forward and back, as implacable as waves rolling against a shore. Friction lit through Dean, the rub of Cas within his body and against his prostate, the rub of Dean's cock against the satin-silk blankets, the rub of Cas’ firm chest against his back, stimulation and pleasure surrounding and suffusing him.

No one had ever made love to Dean so filthily, so deeply, so profoundly gently. Every movement was slow, drawn out, deep and intentional. Cas made love the same way he massaged, and it was glorious. Bliss built in Dean's head, in his gut; though he was sandwiched between the bed and Cas' considerable, muscular bulk, he floated, elated, cherished.

How could he have thought they didn't already have a relationship?

Every time that Dean had gone to the day spa, every massage, every monologue that Cas had soothed him with, every touch that had eased his tension and relieved his knotted back...every moment they'd shared had built to this moment, enchanced the pleasure pooling now within him.

"Perfect..." Cas whispered, rolling into him, and with a shudder and a long sigh that brushed hot through Dean's hair, he felt Cas come - felt him release - and felt him go boneless over Dean, smothering him against the bed.

Crap.

Dean still needed.

Inadequately repressing whimpers, Dean struggled to hold still, to stay relaxed, to not push Cas too hard or far.

"Take...take what...do it..." slurred Cas, adorably bemused. "Do me."

Pushing up with his hips from the bed, Dean obeyed. Cas was still thick, though softening, and Dean ground up, clenching and relaxing, milking Cas, fucking himself, rubbing his dick on the bedding. Tension unavoidably twisted him. He was so close, yet his orgasm was so far away. Tears squeezed out from beneath his eyelids, his muscles straining and aching as he worked up against Cas' weight. Incoherent noises leaked from Cas as Dean overstimulated him, used him; fingers dug into Dean's shoulders, and--

"Come for me, Dean."

With a deep gasp, Dean went rigid, cock spitting onto the bed, ass clenching. Cas sobbed into his shoulder, hips working weakly as he fucked Dean through it, and then they collapsed, together onto the bed.

They lay still for a breathless moment.

"You're heavy," Dean grumbled.

With a guttural laugh, Cas slid to Dean's side. Cold air swept unpleasantly over the sweat hot on Dean’s skin. Dean rolled over, facing him. Cas' face was flushed, splotchy white and red, dripping with sweat that matted his hair dark to his forehead. His blue eyes were dark, his smile wide, his body perfect, the semen and lube on his softening cock dripping onto Dean's formerly immaculate bedding.

"That was amazing," Cas murmured.

"Yeah." No other words would come. Dean reached across the acres of scant space separating them, took Cas' hand, and threaded their fingers together. “Amazing.”

_ You’re amazing. _

"Wanna do it again before you make me breakfast in the morning?"

_ Utterly, mindblowingly, unbelievably amazing. _

"More than anything."

Thank fricken God Naomi had insisted Dean get a massage. Best thing that ever happened to him. He’d have to buy her one of those Edible Arrangement things.

He finally had something - someone - he wanted outside of his job.

They were gonna make every object in Dean's house absolutely filthy, wreck every part of both their bodies, massage each other to the heights of bliss over and over again.

And afterwards, they’d get dressed up, go on a date, waste some of the money that Dean saved because he could never figure out what to spend it on.

And Dean. Couldn't. Wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw hell I wrote an entire endnote and then hit refresh by accident, sigh.
> 
> Basically. The fam is finally getting the hang of our new fall schedule, so I'll be trying to finish up some of my more recent, shorter WIP over the next few weeks. (Back to You, Know Your Place and the monster under the bed fic). I'm also arting for the DCBB, though, so that'll eat some of my time. After those are done, I'll be working on a short, fun collab with the lovely artist Kaeru, but other than that don't expect to hear tons from me - I'm doing the Perfect Pair Bang, and my partner/artist anyrei and I are tackling a monster of a fic for ya'll. They're arting and alphaing and betaing, and I'm writing, and if my guess is right (likely, I don't think I've EVER _underestimated_ the length of a fic) our project will be the longest Destiel fic I've ever finished, and possibly the longest fictional work I've done (my record is an original project that wrapped up at 211k words...). While I work on that, my established WIP will likely remain on hiatus a bit longer, because I can't really wrap my brain around multiple plot-intense projects at once. But that's something to look forward to coming in the spring - posting will be in April next year.
> 
> I don't really use Tumblr, Pillowfort, or any other blog-ish social media these days, but if you need me for anything you can always find me on Discord. I'm unforth#6748 and I'm active on the ProfoundBond server as well as several others - especially ones for challenges I'm either helping run (ie Harlequin) or participating in (ie DCBB) or both (ie PPB).
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your patience with me, ya'll, and thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> First draft of the second/final chapter is officially done. I'll try to get it up this afternoon.


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